


The Rebuilding

by Fontainebleau



Series: Where the Road Leads [2]
Category: The Magnificent Seven (2016)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Everyone Lives/Nobody Dies, Domestic trivia, M/M, Recovery from Illness, realistic medicine
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-11-29
Updated: 2021-03-03
Packaged: 2021-03-10 00:01:23
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 17,501
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27784915
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Fontainebleau/pseuds/Fontainebleau
Summary: He turns himself over gingerly, hard boards under his back to tell him where he is and lies looking up into the rafters. He’s done it. His greatest trick yet – Josh Faraday, the man who blew himself up and lived. Ain’t been pretty, but here he is out the other side.What happened to Faraday and Vasquez? A story beginning in November 1879, overlapping with the events ofWinter's Leasefor several months, and continuing to December the following year.
Relationships: Goodnight Robicheaux/Billy Rocks, Joshua Faraday/Vasquez
Series: Where the Road Leads [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/846414
Comments: 27
Kudos: 26





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This fic has been a long time in the making: huge thanks to VillaKulla for advice, to Hanajimasama for encouragement and to everyone who ever said they'd like to see more of Vasquez' and Faraday's story.

‘Been empty a long time,’ says Emma. ‘Early settler thought he’d try ranching, but it never took.’ They’ve come past the barns, out of sight of the house, Emma pulling her shawl tight around herself against the wind. At the bottom of the fields, green with winter wheat, a path runs off around a stand of trees and behind, where it opens up again, is a low board building with a stone chimney at one end. The latch rattles under Alejo’s hand but the door doesn’t budge. ‘You’ll have to give it a shove: don’t think anyone’s been here in a year or two.’ 

Alejo sets his shoulder to the door and it gives reluctantly. ‘The frame is warped.’ His bootheels thud on the bare floor as he turns himself around inside. It’s as he expected, a single large room with bunks stacked around two sides; at one end is the fireplace, a blackened pot still suspended over the hearth and the boards round it worn and scorched. A few old bits of harness dangle from the rafters, and a dusty blanket is bunched up on one of the bunks. A table, its surface gouged and uneven, and two rough chairs are the only furniture. 

Emma looks around, her shoulders slumping. ‘Can’t see that it’ll do for you.’ Her pinched, worried face brings Alejo an uncomfortable echo of another cabin and an unfortunate meeting, himself half-feral from being hunted, snarling like a cornered wolverine, and her trying desperately to be brave, determined to show a stoical face to the world when inside she was all fractured misery. 

They’ve come so far since then, drawn together in those first weeks after the fight when he’d haunted Joshua’s bedside, terrified he’d slip out of reach. ‘Let him live,’ he had prayed, over and over, ‘let there be a miracle,’ watching as Joshua’s eyes moved restlessly under his eyelids, waiting for a twitch of his fingers or a sound that might show recognition. Emma had been kind to him then, had given him a bed to sleep in, put food in front of him, washed his clothes and not asked questions: once or twice he’d come back late from his fruitless vigil, head bowed over Joshua’s unresponsive hand, to find her sitting alone and distant, like a puppet whose strings have been cut, and it was a relief, to sit down beside her, legs stretched in front of him, and look at the fire and not speak.

Now he grunts. ‘It does not need to be fancy.’ Dirt grits under his feet as he taps on the walls to test them and bends to peer up the chimney. ‘The roof looks sound, if I chase the squirrels out.’ He measures with a craftsman’s eye. ‘Can I take out those bunks, and those?’ 

Emma looks dubious. ‘If it doesn’t bring the walls down with them.’ She turns away, walking to peer out through the grimy window. ‘Matthew and I’- Her face is always set, these days, emotion closed down, and her hair pulled back tight as though if she lets go for one second she’ll fly apart. ‘We came out here when we were courting.‘ Alejo can imagine it, a couple in love and eager for their life together to begin, stealing a few moments of privacy on a busy farm. ‘Sometimes…’ Emma gazes out of the window into a past he can’t see. 

‘Sometimes,’ he prompts. 

‘Sometimes I wish I could step back and be there again, not have to have lived any of this. Be a girl again, looking forward to it all. Not…’ She hugs herself, swallowing, and without thinking he steps close and folds her into his arms.

A bad omen? He never met Matthew Cullen; by everyone’s account he was a brave man and a loving husband. Emma and he had known happiness here, and now the place stands derelict, all rusted hinges and peeling boards. ‘We have to go forwards. He would not want you to be sad.’

Emma pulls back, refocusing on the dusty present. ‘Are you certain about this? It’s a way from the house, and you won’t have a stove or a proper bed. It doesn’t seem right, bringing an invalid somewhere so rough and dirty.’ 

That brings a wry twist to Alejo’s lips: he’s lived far worse in his time – in abandoned cabins with ivy growing through the boards and a nest of raccoons under the floor, in an old sod hut, windowless and dropping dirt from the roof, in a cave, even, where the damp seemed to sink into his very bones. ‘Think of Joshua,’ he tells her now. ‘Picture him in your mind.’ He looks at her and knows what she sees: Joshua Faraday, swaggering and cocky with that green-eyed grin, holding up his hands in mock apology as he makes you the butt of a bad joke. ‘What does he want, a bed in the farmhouse, where he has to be polite and behave himself, or this?’ 

Emma’s face lightens. ‘This.’ 

‘It is dirty, but I can scrub it out in a day. And it is far from everyone. It is what he needs.’ 

After she’s gone back up to the farmhouse to take charge again Alejo props himself in the bunkhouse doorway to light a cigar and puff it reflectively. He’s making himself sound more optimistic than he is: getting this properly habitable will be a week of work. But it’s the right thing, he’s sure – this last month at Lynch’s Joshua’s been permanently at the end of his always short temper, boiling with frustration and wretchedly embarrassed that he has to let strangers see his struggles. How can a man so brash and confident have turned so awkward? Just a week ago, at the prospect of crossing the threshold of the saloon to face the town, all Josh’s rage and bitterness had come welling up: _Ain’t having them pitying me, going back home to spread the word, Josh Faraday, he ain’t what he was, shoulda seen him trying to pick up a glass right…_ Rage, but underneath it there was panic, and Alejo had had to sit with him and calm him, _It is no problem, we can stay here, another time..._

He’d only had to see the change in Goodnight and Billy: when they came back from living at the Tillmans’ they’d been slow and pale, struggling to fend for themselves like the old men Goodnight said they were, but a week later they were racketing around laughing, Goodnight’s bad leg and cane forgotten, drawing strength from each other in a way he now envied. _We can do the same_. 

The cold wind rattles the window as he stands in the doorway. It won’t be fancy here, Emma’s right, they’ll be cooking on a fire, inside or out, hauling a bucket from the well to wash, bringing food from the farmhouse instead of fussing with baking. It’s a place for men who work, who spend the day outdoors and come back to drink, play around and sleep. And that’s what Joshua needs, he’s sure of it, the chance to live his proper life again, let it come back to him… There’s work to do to get the place ready, yes, but work’s what Alejo’s good at, his hands already itching for hammer and scrubbing-brush. _This is where we need to be_.

\--

A week later he squelches across the churned mud of the main street to Lynch’s neat house, tucked away behind the waggoner’s. The doctor’s gig is standing outside, a black horse in the traces, and from an open window his booming voice carries loud and clear. ‘Morning and night, like a soldier doing drill. And use the cane to keep the pressure off it.’ Josh’s reply is inaudible but Alejo still winces, imagining how well Lynch’s admonishments are going down. 

He knocks to announce himself, wipes his boots carefully on the mat, then pushes open the door and doffs his hat to the long-suffering Mrs Lynch. ‘I am here to take him off your hands.’ 

‘Always glad to see a patient leave,’ says Mrs Lynch dryly and Alejo rumbles a laugh. 

‘This one especially, I am sure.’ 

Lynch appears, his usual affable demeanour slightly ruffled. ‘Alejandro, a word before we go?’ he asks, and Alejo follows him into the tiny consulting-room with a wink to the pale-faced maid who scurries past them carrying a bundle of dirty sheets. Lynch waves him to a seat. ‘I’ve been giving Joshua his instructions but I know it goes in one ear and out the other with him: I’m going to need you to have to have sense for the both of you.’ 

‘You think he will listen to me any better than you?’ 

Alejo’s ready to laugh, but Lynch puts his hands on his knees and fixes him with a stern look.  
‘He must exercise. It’ll be painful, but the more he sits, the more the muscles will contract. I’ve given him some salve to rub into his leg – see that he uses it. And don’t let him overdo things: healing’s a drain, and there’ a long road ahead before he’s well.’ He’s so earnest: but then Josh is his professional project, isn’t he – Lynch is never backward in praising his own achievements and bringing Josh back from the brink of death is a tale for any doctor to boast of. 

‘I will try,’ Alejo promises, then as Lynch frowns sceptically, ‘God be my witness.’ 

Lynch looks at him for a moment longer with something unfathomable in his expression. ‘And that’s all any of us can do.’ He stands up, brushing down his pants. ‘Samson’s harnessed; I’ll let you fetch the man of the hour.’

\--

At the sound of boots along the hallway Josh heaves himself up with a grunt from the edge of the bed. There’s no mirror in the room, though a dark patch on the wallpaper shows where it used to hang, but he doesn’t need to see himself to know that he looks as patched-together on the outside as he is underneath, dressed in a pair of Lynch’s old pants, made for a stouter man, a shirt that’s starting a hole behind one sleeve from his impatient wrenching at it, a plain cloth vest and a dead man’s boots. He has to mourn the loss of his worn leather vest with its secret pockets, soft and close-fitting as the pelt of an animal; only the neckerchief makes him feel like himself, and the hat which covers his patchy hair and shades his face. 

Still, he’s walking out of here on his own two feet. Been here way too long, stuck inside these four walls with Lynch prodding at him, _if he coulda cured my wounds by poking at ‘em I’d have been out there digging graves with Vas_ , and then his wife and the maid with their never-ending business of clean sheets, clean shirt, wash your face, and flinching every time he swore. It’s no place for a man like him and now he’s shot of it for good.

And here’s Vas, too tall and energetic for the room. ‘Ready to go, cabrón?’ 

‘You bet your ass,’ growls Josh. ‘Wouldn’t have stayed in a top-class whorehouse this long, not if the girls were sucking my dick for free.’ 

‘Show some gratitude,’ Alejo chides him as he scoops up what there is of Josh’s gear – a stiff new gunbelt holding two ruined guns, a spare shirt and drawers rolled up tight and a small leather satchel. 

‘Oh, I’m grateful.’ Josh gives the room a last disparaging look. ‘Same as for getting out of prison.’ 

‘You’d know all about that,’ sniffs Vas, like he has any claim to moral superiority. 

‘May have been one or two unfortunate misunderstandings in my past,’ admits Josh cheerfully. ‘But ‘least when you’re in the cells there’s always something going on, even if it ain’t necessarily something you want to be happening.’ Not the endless blank days with his own company, shifting and tossing to try to ease the pain, trying hard not to think about the future. 

‘Well, you’re sprung.’ Vas picks up the cane that’s propped next to the door but doesn’t offer it: Josh’s already made more than plain he won’t be making a show of himself that way. All well and good for dandyish types like Goodnight, but a man like him using it, he’ll look like the cripple that he is. 

‘Can’t keep a good man down,’ he declares, though he has to keep one hand on the wall as he limps determinedly through the house to the front door. Lynch’s starchy wife is waiting there, lips pressed thin, and he tips his hat to her, momentarily abashed at the memory of what she’s done for him. ‘Be glad to see the back of me, I expect.’ 

All he gets is a prim, ‘God be praised,’ no doubt as much for his departure as for his recovery. 

‘I’ll be back before six.’ Lynch kisses his wife with cheerful affection and leads the way to the waiting gig. ‘Let’s be getting on.’ 

It’s long enough since Josh has been properly outside: Rose Creek’s scars are still there to see in the spliced-in planks of the storefronts and the roughly-mended pillars of the hotel, though it’s back to its workaday hum, carts passing up and down and storekeepers at their doors. The repairs to the church are almost finished, the belltower of bright new wood high again – trust them to waste their effort on that. Must be saying now it was God saved them, just like he told Jack Horne. 

He’s so busy gawking around that Vas has him boosted up into the carriage before he knows it; Lynch settles in front and Josh is just beginning to feel foolish, sat up in a gig like a maiden aunt, but Vas shoves in on the seat beside him, stretching out his legs and grinning as Lynch clicks his tongue and drives them off at a sedate pace.

Being out in the world again is a rush of sensation, the wind sharp on his face as they take the road beside the creek, lush and green after the rain. Josh realises he’s craning about like a kid and sits back self-consciously, the seat pressing uncomfortably on his back and thigh. Hell, how can he be getting enthusiastic about such a boring little place? Only reason he came here was for the excitement and mayhem, but now it’s exactly the kind of tightassed godfearing town he tried to avoid, dumb farmers slaving at the kind of labour he despises and thinking it’s a reward to spend their Sundays getting preached at. He’s still not sure he really understands it: he fought for Rose Creek, blew himself up over it, and all for the kind of place he’s never been welcome. Sam Chisolm has a lot to answer for. 

He’d come to visit once or twice: Josh guesses they all did, though he doesn’t remember much from those early weeks. Chisolm took off about his own business soon enough, though, and took the Indian with him, and old Jack Horne wasn’t much for a sickbed. Goodnight was entertaining enough, with his books and his flask of liquor: seeing him come limping in had set something loose in Josh’s chest, like Goodnight wasn’t going to look down on him for being sick, or not any more than he already did, and with a few drinks in him his stories were pretty good. But there’ll be no more need of that neither, not once he’s out of the way here with Vas.

It’s not long to the Cullen spread, and Josh is glad of Vas’s steadying bulk at his side as they come rattling and bouncing down the slope to the farmhouse. Emma Cullen is standing outside to greet them, and for his sins Teddy Q is there too, not looking any less wet behind the ears for all Goodnight says. A darkly pretty girl pauses from hanging up clothes on the line to stare and Josh shrinks at the prickle of everyone’s scrutiny, but maybe Lynch is in cahoots with Vas, because he raises a hand and drives on by to circle the gig in front of the barn where Josh can get down without making a show of himself. 

Even so Lynch can’t resist climbing out to give him a final once-over, and when he’s finished he puts a hand on Josh’s shoulder. ‘I won’t go pestering you, but call for me straight away if there’s anything you need. And keep up the exercises.’ 

‘Thanks, doc,’ says Josh gruffly: he supposes Lynch and his fussy womenfolk have had something to do taking care of him. ‘Don’t think I’ll need to be bothering you.’ 

‘I’ll just go and pay my respects to Mrs Cullen,’ says Lynch, and to Josh’s relief he takes himself off. 

Vas tucks Josh’s gear under one arm: if he’s forgotten the cane, rolled under the seat of the gig, then Josh isn’t going to remind him. ‘This way.’ 

‘Couldn’t Lynch have took us right there?’ grumbles Josh; Vas grabs his elbow as he lurches unsteadily on the rough ground. 

‘Other side of the trees,’ he tells him, ‘just take it slowly.’ It’s frustrating, hobbling along like an old-timer who needs a mule, but Vas eases him along, through the trees to a rickety-looking plank building with two square windows. ‘You sure no one’s going to be hanging round this place?’ 

‘Couple of raccoons underneath, maybe.’ Vas lets him lean against the chopping block while he opens the door. ‘Rest of your gear is here already, and just as much housekeeping as we need.’

The earth’s packed hollow under the threshold and Josh has to haul himself up by the doorframe; Vas clicks his tongue, one hand on his back to steady him. Josh takes in the space inside at a glance, a single bare room with a pair of bunks at one end for sleeping and a table and chairs at the other, a waterbucket with plates and mugs stacked neatly beside and a coffeepot next to the unlit fire. ‘No corpse?’ he asks as Vas helps him to a chair. 

Vas snorts. ‘Get you one if you want.’ The two bunks are laid out with a bedroll and blanket; he takes Josh’s kit and stows in neatly beside. ‘No more feather-bed like you’ve been used to.’ 

Josh shrugs, ignoring the stab of fire down his back. ‘Been living too soft. No life for a man.’ 

This time Vas huffs a laugh. ‘Did you listen to Lynch at all? You won’t rush getting well.’ 

‘I’m on my feet, ain’t I?’ insists Josh stubbornly. ‘And this place is fine. Only problem is with it being so far from the saloon.’ The joke’s a reflex, but as he says it he hears it ring uncomfortably true: he can’t see a bottle lying about, and if visitors upset him, at least some of ‘em knew to leave a drink when they were done. 

Vas rolls his eyes. ‘There is water in the well. And we can eat at the farmhouse-‘ 

‘No.’ He’ll be nipping that one in the bud right now. ‘Got a fire here, ain’t we? Even you can come up with burnt dampers and undercooked rabbit.’ 

‘My speciality,’ grins Vas. He snaps to his feet, all energy. ‘I will go back up and get something to cook.’

When Vas is gone Josh turns himself around to take the measure of the place. There’s not much to it – even with both their gear in it’s sparse and with the fire unlit it’s cheerless and slightly chilly. The peace of it, though… It’s the prospect that’s kept him going, living for the day when he can be his own boss again. And it’s not as if they’re going to be long here anyway, just to get round to spring again. Doc can say what he wants, peering at him under those bushy eyebrows, about _gradual return of function_ and _compensation_ : all he needs is a bit of privacy to heal up so he can be back to riding and fighting. His hearing ain’t so great, but maybe that’ll come back in time too, and if his hand won’t, well, he’s sat round a table for cards with One-Eyed Luke and Three-Finger Simeon, hasn’t he? 

The chair is hard and he shifts to try to ease the ache in his leg and that one big damnable scar across his back that pulls at his side. He really should be getting firewood and starting the fire, maybe going out back to see what else is here, but he just can’t find the energy. 

He must have dozed off, because he starts awake when the door rattles open again and Vas is back, dropping a basket onto the table. He fishes in his back pocket. ‘Do not tell me I do not have your best interests at heart.’ 

‘Now that’s a sight for sore eyes.’ Josh holds up a hand for the bottle but instead of tossing it over Vas slides it carefully across the table. Josh uncorks it with his teeth and takes a hearty swig while Vas pulls things out of the basket. 

‘Emma says to come up tomorrow, but she gave us some pie for tonight. I will boil some potatoes and greens.’ 

‘Shoulda got to the fire,’ starts Josh, half an apology, but Vas clicks his tongue. 

‘ _Idiota_. You should be lying down.’ Josh can’t really argue: he lets Vas give him a shoulder so he can shuffle the short distance to his bunk. It’s as hard as promised, a thin paliasse on top of bare boards, but it lets him lie flat, and Vas throws the blanket over him. Josh props his head on one arm to watch as Vas squats to build the fire, humming to himself.

Next thing Vas is nudging his shoulder, a plate of food in his hand. The fire’s burnt up making the place as warm as he could want, and Josh realised how hungry he is. He hauls himself up to sitting, shaking off the blanket as Vas gives him the plate and fork. ‘Can you manage?’ 

‘Ain’t got to feed me,’ Josh grunts: he’s worked out a pretty good method, steadying the plate between his bad hand and his knees so he can shovel it up left-handed. It’s good, the pie rich and flavoursome with the tangy greens, just what he needs to put the meat back on him. Vas, digging into his own plate with his usual lack of grace, raises his eyebrows in enquiry. ‘Cooking ain’t up to much,’ says Josh at once. ‘Expected more spice to it.’ 

Vas bares his teeth. ‘I will remember. And what happened to that bottle, _cabrón/i >?’ _

__

__

Josh fishes under the blanket. ‘Well, would you look at that – don’t know how it found its way over here.’ 

After they’ve eaten it’s oddly awkward. They’ve done enough of the prim sickbed visiting, Vas lounging on the end of his bed sharing the gossip while they play cards for matchsticks: a place like this should be for a proper evening’s sport, setting up bottles to shoot or playing pranks to make someone the butt of a joke, with a drink and an argument to spice things up – hell, half his time with Vas had been trying to get him riled up enough to trip him into bed. But right now Josh isn’t up for any of his old plays, and it’s not as though either of them goes in for Goody’s brand of jaw-flapping. 

Vas unwinds himself from his chair, stretching. ‘Come.’ 

‘Where?’ 

‘Do you have to argue about everything?’ Vas tweaks off the blanket impatiently. ‘Get up.’ 

Josh has hardly had much to drink but his head spins as Vas hauls him upright and leads him to the door. ‘Ain’t exactly up for a walk in the moonlight,’ he objects, but Vas pushes him gently down to sit on the step. 

‘No need to be cramped up inside.’ Josh has to allow it’s not the worst idea: he can stretch out his bad leg and lean up against the doorframe, looking out. It’s too dark to see anything but an inky blue sky above the rustling leaves: an owl hoots in the branches close by. 

The air is cool, but Josh has the warmth of the fire at his back and Vas next to him; Vas lights a cigar and puffs it contemplatively, the sweet smoke mingling with his scent of sweat and leather. Josh raises his eyes to the stars beginning to show, faint and twinkling. Been through a lot of shit, no denying that, but he’s here and he’s alive. Only way is up. ‘Thanks, V,’ he says gruffly. 

\--

‘There is bread and cheese but you will have to feed the fire up for coffee.’ Alejo is ready for work, hat in hand; all he can see of Josh is the back of a rusty head. ‘The waterbucket is full - don’t try to do so much, OK?’ 

Josh shifts irritably, drawing the blanket tighter around him. ‘Quit hoverin’. Whole idea was getting me someplace I can scratch my balls in peace without some woman crashing in every five minutes.’ 

‘I will be gone all day: it will be dull,’ insists Alejo. 

‘Jesus wept.’ 

Josh thumps his head down onto the pillow and Alejo blows out a sigh: Josh doesn’t need babying and he has a day’s work to do. ‘See you later, _cabrón_.’ 

He steps out into the early morning sun, warm on his face. Sounds drift through the sharp still air: goats on the move, bells jingling, oxen lowing as someone leads them out to harness, a distant shout and laugh. As he latches the door he pauses, considering: easy enough to scrounge up some wood to make a step, or two steps maybe, shallower. An evening’s work: it would be nothing. He sets his hat on his head and goes striding through the trees and up the track to the barn.

He’s been so used to seeing Josh at Lynch’s, on his feet and moving confidently round his small room: it had come as a shock to see him outside. Not just pale and unsteady but thin, his burly frame pared down and soft, and self-conscious where he’d been brash, shrinking away from scrutiny. And even in the bunkhouse the changes his months of recovery had wrought were stark. _But this is better than where he was_ , he reminds himself. _Better than when he was cursing us all for keeping him alive. And he will get better again, now he’s back to what he knows_. 

How did it come to this, though, making a place for him and Joshua to live? Alejo’s had his fair share of men and women, more than his fair share when he was young – he wasn’t very old before he learned to recognise the girls’ bright-eyed glances, and that a smile and a joke was all it took to charm a kiss from them; and later he learned that there were boys like him too, ready to meet his speculative gaze and follow him down to the shade of the riverbank. And at first, out on his own, it had been the same, willing girls and lonely wives, and in a land with women so scarce, plenty of men who wouldn’t say him no in private. So he’d gone from one to another, always with one foot on the way to somewhere else; he’d loved them for the time they were together and parted with a wink and his eye on the future.

And so it had gone, until it all went to hell and he was a hunted man, his face too familiar from a badly-printed poster, keeping his distance so he wouldn’t have to see the flash of recognition and glint of cunning behind a friendly face. When Sam Chisolm came along offering a crazy way out it was the only chance he had, and he’d be lying if he didn’t admit the prospect of simple human contact lured him in, even if his first companions around the campfire were a hard-faced widow and a taciturn lawman. 

And Joshua? A drunk and an idiot had been his thought when the gambler tumbled from his horse to insult him, but even then there had been a spark that passed between them, or so it had seemed to him. His skin was crawling for a touch, for the comfort of another living body, and when the green-eyed payaso had swaggered and taunted him with a sideways look it fanned the spark to a flame. He’d be embarrassed by it now, how eagerly he leaned into Joshua’s biting kisses, waves of lust consuming him, how he’d melted around him, pouring out words like honey: _cariño, lindo_. Fast and hot, like the fuse for an explosive: in normal times he would have let the fever run its course, risen from the bed cured after a week and left with his same careless wink. But what’s normal, after Rose Creek? The confusion and desperation of the fight, man after man falling amid smoke and bullets, splinters and blood; Joshua gutshot and already dying, riding off like a devil through the hail of fire in a crazy sacrifice. All the old expectations blown sky-high with the Gatling gun; that Joshua survived at all was astounding, how could Alejo have walked away? And now here they are, like the rest of the town, rebuilding from the ground up.

Well, the day’s work in front of him is clear enough – he’s earning both their keep, and glad to do it. He knows his other new friends find it unfathomable, his pleasure in physical work – Sam and Billy both chose to put labour behind them while Goody isn’t even on nodding terms with work and Red has nothing but contempt for it. Josh had laughed in his face when Alejo told him he’d turned farmhand, as though it was a joke. But Alejo likes using his hands, making and crafting, enjoys the companionship and the ache of well-earned fatigue at the end of the day which tells him that he’s made a mark, moved things along a little. And in time, when Josh is better… well, plenty of time to work that out. 

In the farmhouse kitchen Catalina is at the table, elbow-deep in a basin of dough. Alejo makes it a personal challenge to win a smile from every woman he meets and this one isn’t hard: she greets him with a cheerful _hola_ and a pretty flush. A basket of red apples sits beside the crock of dough and Alejo leans over to filch the topmost. ‘Hey!’ Catalina slaps at his hand in a puff of flour and Alejo winks. 

‘Too sweet and tempting to resist.’ 

Catalina tosses back her hair. ‘I thought you liked spice, not sweet.’ 

Alejo creases into a grin. ‘I like both together.’ 

They’re laughing when Emma comes in, her severely-tied hair and dark-circled eyes a sad contrast to Catalina’s tumbling curls and glowing cheeks. Alejo sobers: rough though his and Joshua’s new berth is, it’s not the empty bed she sleeps in, and he feels guilty all over again. ‘What is for today?’ he asks her. 

Emma rubs her forehead. ‘Fork out the ox stalls. I set Lyle to it, but he’d rather go cutting wood for fenceposts than pitch out dirty straw. Oh, and the spotted nanny’s gone lame – if you could take a look at her too?’ 

‘Sure,’ he agrees, and at least his willingness eases the strain in her face a little. 

Catalina is kneading industriously and Emma reaches for a knife to pare the apples. ‘I’ll set places for the two of you at supper tonight.’ 

‘No’ - it comes out too quickly, but he knows how Josh would react to everyone staring. ‘Give it a day or two.’ 

The line between Emma’s brows comes back. ‘He needs feeding up and he won’t get that scratching over a fire with you.’ 

‘I am an excellent cook.’ Alejo pantomimes hurt. ‘But I must not delay, or Lyle will be off with the cart and all the shovelling left for me.’ That finally gets a reluctant smile, and satisfied, he takes his leave, crunching into the apple as he heads for the barn. 

\--

After Vas quits crashing about so ungodly early Josh dozes off again; he blinks abruptly awake some time later, momentarily startled by the rough planks inches from his nose. He turns himself over gingerly, hard boards under his back to tell him where he is and lies looking up into the rafters. He’s done it. His greatest trick yet – Josh Faraday, the man who blew himself up and lived. Ain’t been pretty, but here he is out the other side.

Can’t be lying about all day, though. First thing’s always an ordeal and he grits his teeth, breath hissing as he pulls himself up to sit, muscles spasming painfully. He gives it a minute for the fire in his hip to subside, then swings his legs down and begins the struggle with pants and shirt; only when he’s laboriously buttoning his vest does he remember the doc’s damn-fool jar of jollop, still at the bottom of his bag. Well, he can’t be fussing with it now, he can see to it tonight. 

He’d be mortified if anyone saw how he stumbles across to the table, catching at the back of the chair for balance, but no one’s there to care and at least Vas has done right by him, the bread and cheese to hand, and a half-empty coffeepot too. Cold, but the fire is a challenge too far right now: he tips out a cup and swallows it down with a grimace. Still, it’s hardly the worst breakfast he’s had. He rubs his hands over his hair and reaches for his hat. Time to see just how much he can do.

The sun is well up but the air is still sharp and fresh and he draws it in appreciatively. Out front of the bunkhouse he can see across to the fields, green at this time of year: some tiny figures are hard at work and he wonders if Vas is one of them, though they’re too small for him to make out. To the right there’s a newly-worn path round the side of the building, to the well he supposes, and curious to see what’s there, he picks his way around, good hand on the wall. At the side the trees crowd close but behind the space is unexpectedly open, a broad slope bright with morning sun, running down to a corral where two horses are grazing, one a grey and the other a big bay: Jack!

At Josh’s whistle Jack raises his head and comes trotting over to the fence, waiting while Josh limps unsteadily down to him. He grabs onto the rail, shaky from the effort, and runs a hand up and down Jack’s neck. It’s good to find him so close by: Vas had said he was being taken care of and he seems in good enough condition, bit too well-covered, even. His impatient stamp and the twitch of his tail are enough to show that he hasn’t been ridden properly for a while, and Josh feels a glow of pride that his horse is still a one-man beast. Someone’s been currying him, though, and if Vas is able to get that close to him then colour Josh impressed. Though he guesses Vas has had time. ‘Miss me, you stubborn nag?’ he asks tugging on one ear, and Jack snorts and prances skittishly away.

Josh leans both arms on the fence as Vas’ Ottavio comes nosing over to see what’s up. There’s room for two horses here and more, the grass wide with a view right across the valley to the distant hills. Even if he’s not riding out, something inside Josh eases and unfolds at the sight of the land stretching open: after so long staring at four walls and a view of the main street it’s a sight he’s sorely missed. 

Saddle and the rest of his gear must be back in the bunkhouse, but he can’t quite face going back and trying to ferret it out. Instead he turns round and puts his back to the rail, soaking up the sun. In the shelter of the trees it’s quiet, just the rustle of branches and the chirps of birds. _It will be dull_ , Vas had warned, and before it would have been – Josh has never been much for the outdoors like old Horne, the odd bit of fishing apart, but he’s most at home finding trouble in a town. Now, though, every tiny sound and movement fascinates him – the glitter of the sun on the horse trough, the drone of a passing fly, the tearing grass as the horses graze; it’s like he’s seeing the world all over again, new-made just for him. The idea makes him snort – he’ll be turning as poetic and high-faluting as Goody at this rate. 

A movement among the trees catches his eye and he tracks it: a woodchuck? A squirrel? No, a dog, a skinny brown mutt that comes nosing out curiously and sinks onto its haunches to scratch itself. One of the farm dogs, must be. It’s not that old if he’s any judge, still a bit leggy, its coat patchy and one of its ears torn from fighting. ‘Hey, mutt,’ he says, quiet so as not to spook it, ‘shirking off work like me?’ The dog perks up at the sound of his voice and sidles closer, sniffing. ‘Being friendly? Ain’t got nothing to eat on me.’ The dog stretches, eyeing him optimistically, then when nothing seems to be forthcoming, yawns and slumps down in the sun. Josh snickers. ‘How’d a farm breed a creature as lazy as you?’ 

They idle away together for a while, the dog listening attentively as Josh rambles on to Jack; eventually, when he makes his way slowly back up to the bunkhouse it follows at a distance and hovers at the threshold, ears perked. Josh snags the cheese rind and tosses it over: the dog snaps it neatly out of the air and gulps it down. ‘Hungry, huh?’ The dog thumps its tail encouragingly; Josh knows he’s being suckered, but he hunts around until he finds some more scraps and sits down on the step to toss them over one by one. 

When he’s done he shows the dog his empty hands and it whuffs politely; he expects it to run off, but instead it sits down, tail wagging. Josh smiles. ‘Runty little critter, ain’t you, and only half an ear. How ‘bout we call you Wild Bill?’ He chuckles, entertained, then looks down at the dog ruefully. ‘Two of a kind like that, ain’t we?’ He reaches out tentatively to scratch under the chewed ear and Wild Bill lets him, closing his eyes in bliss. Then suddenly he stiffens, cocking his head at something Josh can’t hear, and darts away into the trees. Josh hears it too, then, a shouted greeting. _Shit_. So much for keeping themselves private: he hauls himself to his feet to confront his visitor.

Emma Cullen, a pail in one hand and a bundle under her other arm, come to see what she’s taken on? She’d been round to see him at Lynch’s, of course, when he was still just half-alive, but if they had a conversation he doesn’t recall it. He remembers her better at her target-shooting, unimpressed by his praise, and he’s heard the story of how she shot Bogue and had her revenge, though looking at her pale strained face it don’t seem to have brought her much satisfaction. ‘Miz Cullen.’ He guesses he owes it to her to be polite – she’s giving him room and board, after all. 

Emma breaks into a smile that seems genuine. ‘Lynch said you were a walking miracle, Mr Faraday, and I’m inclined to believe him. Came over to see that you’ve all you need.’ 

‘We’re fixed up right enough here,’ says Josh warily; Vas said she was set on having him to live at the farmhouse, didn’t he, and he won’t be having any of that. 

She obviously wants to come in, though, so he stands back to let her, self-conscious of how he lurches on his feet and how he has to grab at the table for support. Emma’s not watching him, though: she’s gazing around in pleased surprise. ‘Alejandro’s been busy.’ The place seems to meet with her approval. ‘He must have scrubbed it from top to bottom. And took out the bunks you don’t need.’ 

Josh hadn’t given much thought to how much work it had been, Vas had been so matter-of-fact. ‘Suits us fine. And I ‘preciate it,’ he adds gruffly. 

The pail is half-full of red apples: Emma sets it down next to the door. ‘Thought you might like these.’ 

Josh doesn’t really know what to say to her: since the battle she seems to have gone back to acting like any other respectable lady, and what does he know about that? ‘Can’t offer you nothing,’ he says, ‘’cept well-water.’ 

Emma shakes her head. ‘I didn’t come to sit and visit.’ She lays the bundle on the table. ‘Just to bring – I don’t imagine you’ve had the chance to order new clothes, and I thought, you’re of a size with Matthew… Pants might need taking up, but they should fit you better than those you’re wearing.’ 

Clothes? Makes sense, he supposes: he can’t be riding out of here still in Lynch’s castoffs. ‘Guess I could, at that.’ He sits down to unroll the bundle and shakes out a pair of work pants, two shirts, one white and one red, and a dark vest with brass buttons that looks pretty new. ‘Fancy,’ he comments, holding it up. 

‘He never wore it much.’ Emma swallows. ‘Don’t make sense to keep it in the press if you can use it.’ She turns away abruptly. 

Josh lets the vest drop. ‘I can give ‘em some wear.’ Emma’s reply is too soft for him to catch: how’s she expect him to hear if he’s got his back turned? ‘Have to speak up,’ he says irritably.

Emma comes back round where he can see her, two spots of colour high on her cheeks. 'I asked if there’s anything else you need?’ 

‘Three new fingers and my good looks back?’ At her expression Josh has to remind himself of all she’s done for Vas and him. ‘Found my horse out back. You’ve done well by him.’ 

A ghost of a smile lifts Emma’s lips. ‘He’s been giving Henry hell – he’ll be glad you’re on your feet just so he won’t have to get kicked again.’ She glances round the room one more time. ‘I won’t keep coming by to bother you – you know where the house is when you want your laundry done.’ 

Least she doesn’t expect him to see her out; it’s only when he gets up after she’s gone that he notices the smooth black cane propped against the wall beside the door: goddamn Lynch. 

\--

Josh wouldn’t say he was exactly sitting and waiting for Vas to come back at day’s end, but he has the door open as soon as his partner appears, a crock in one elbow and a stack of small planks on his shoulder. ‘What’s those for?’ 

Vas lets them fall with a crash: he’s dusty and sweated. ‘Make a step, for getting in and out.’ He grins. ‘But first I will wash and eat.’ The bucket’s still full, though the hearth’s all unraked ashes from last night and the dishes unwashed: should have done more, thinks Josh, too late, but Vas doesn’t seem bothered. 

As he rattles round briskly Josh picks up the pile of clothes from the table. ‘Emma Cullen came by. Brought these.’ He shakes out the red shirt. ‘Make me look a bit smarter, I guess?’ 

Vas is frowning. ‘Matthew’s. _Pobrecita_.’ 

Josh shrugs. ‘Goody and Billy’ve been walking round in widows’ castoffs these last months, ain’t they? Just how the world goes.’ No point being sentimental about it – life’s for the living. 

Dinner tonight is salt cod cooked up with potatoes and ham scraps, and when it’s ready they both fall to with a hearty appetite. ‘Good cooking,’ Josh approves. ‘I’m guessing it ain't’t yours?’ 

A lump of potato comes flying over to bounce off him. ‘Catalina made it.’ 

Josh chuckles, pleased to have riled him. ‘That one who was outside yesterday? Better sight than Lynch’s prune-faced girl, I’ll give her that.’ 

Vas guffaws. ‘It is probably a good thing Lynch’s girl is plain, for her and you. And don't think too hard about Catalina -- she would not think twice to box your ears.’ 

‘Yeah, well.’ Josh turns his attention to his plate again. ‘Ain’t none of ‘em going to be looking at me the same now.’ 

Vas’ voice softens as he answers. ‘Guero, after what you did no one in the town is going to be looking at you the same, I promise you that.’ 

Josh snorts. ‘Well they can keep it if it ain’t going to put money in my pocket.’ The words make him pause – didn’t Goody say something about that? Now he’ll be riding again, why not? ‘We should do like Goody said, go over to this cabin and play some poker.’ 

Vas looks up, surprised. ‘You sure?’ 

‘Why not?’ Josh hadn’t been so keen on Rocks seeing him laid up: right from when he met him, Rocks always did make him feel like he saw straight through to the core of him and didn’t think much of what he found there, and lying in bed covered in bandages hadn’t made that any better. But now he’s himself again, well, they’re on an even keel, ain’t they? 

Vas chases the grease on his plate with a scrap of bread, then sucks his fingers. ‘I will tell Lyle to let Goody know when takes the cart into town.’ 

Once they’re done Vas gathers the crock and dishes to wash outside and Josh goes with him to lend moral support. To his surprise Vas conjures up a toolbox after and begins measuring and marking with a stump of pencil. ‘Ain’t you done with work today?’ 

‘It will not take long.’ Even though he’s done a day’s labour already Vas seems happy enough, whistling as he begins to cut the planks: Josh leans up on the chopping block and lights a cigarette, another pleasure he’s sorely missed. 

After a while the dog comes sidling out from the trees again, stopping at a wary distance. ‘Scoutin’ for more scraps, huh?’ Josh holds out a hand and Wild Bill comes willingly, tail already wagging. 

‘Who is this?’ asks Vas quietly, eyes still on his work. 

Wild Bill lets Josh scratch his ears again. ‘Turned up when I was out with the horses, he ain’t doing no harm.’ 

‘Dog is always a good idea,’ agrees Vas easily. ‘Got a name for him?’ 

‘Called him Wild Bill.’ Josh tells the story, a little embarrassed to be caught in such sentiment, but Vas laughs. 

‘We must hope he has more brains than his namesake.’ 

'Wouldn't be hard, even for a dog.' Josh snickers at the memory. Though he's not going to be pulling a trick like that again anytime soon, is he, not with his guns and his cards blown to shit. He forces himself to focus on the neat set of steps taking shape under Vas' clever hands. ‘So who’s this Henry who Jack bit?’ he asks. 

Vas huffs. ‘Your horse is a demon. And Henry, he is Teddy’s brother. He is younger, he comes to help.’ 

‘Another one?’ And even more useless than Q, by the sound of it. ‘Why does Emma Cullen give them the time of day?’ 

‘She can’t run the farm alone,’ says Vas patiently. ‘There is Lyle, he is hired, and with Henry and me it is enough to see to the work.’ 

‘Wasn't that Teddy fixing to marry her? Followed her round enough, and he's the godfearing family sort.’ 

Vas sets the finished step under the door and begins driving in nails to anchor it. ‘She will not marry for protection, not if her heart does not want it.’ 

Do hearts usually come into it? Though Josh has to allow, matrimony’s hardly a subject he’s made a study of. ‘I was her, I’d just up and go.’ 

Vas stands up and sets his foot on it, testing. ‘She fought to keep the farm, _chingado_ , she’s not going to run out on it.’ He steps back, satisfied. ‘There. Try.’ 

Josh shrugs as he stubs out his cigarette and straightens up. ‘Land ain’t nothing but a weight round your neck. Never had any use for that.’ 


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The events in this chapter are set against the background of the December and January chapters of _Winter's Lease_ , though all scenes in this fic are original to both stories.

Drunk Joshua, Alejo reflects as Ciro ambles along the road with the pair of them doubled on his back, is a whole lot less trouble than sober Joshua. On the way into town he’d been fuming at having to ride double, cursing Jack for being so wild and hellish, Alejo for agreeing to Goodnight’s dumbass idea in the first place, and himself for being so fucking crocked he can’t even control his own horse. Now, though, the fire’s died down and he’s pressed against Alejo’s back, comfortably warm and muttering over his shoulder. ‘You said they were set up there, but you didn’t tell me it was all so…’ 

‘So what?’ Alejo is counting it as a good evening – Goody’s fine company when the mood takes him, and these days he’s starting to see a side of Billy he didn’t suspect, dry and playful. 

‘So prim.’ Prim? In his opinion Billy and Goody’s cabin has a lot to recommend it: after he helped them set it up he feels slightly proprietorial about it, and these days it’s cosy with its glowing stove, a mismatched set of glasses obviously purloined from the saloon and the kitchen filling up with food. ‘Rugs and dishes and a bathtub, all respectable-like,’ continues Joshua. He snickers. ‘Which one of ‘em’s the wife, d’you reckon? Always figured it’d be Billy calling the shots with ‘em and Goody making his dinner, but it don’t seem like that.’ 

Alejo rolls his eyes, even though Joshua can’t see it. ‘Does there have to be a husband and a wife?’ 

‘Sure there does.’ A finger pokes him in the ribs. ‘Always one to boss the other. If a man don’t have the upper hand with his woman, she will with him.’ He sounds so earnest, it’s Alejo’s turn to laugh as they finally reach the turnoff to the Cullen farm. 

‘Thought you don’t know anything about matrimony.’ The lights are out in the farmhouse, labouring folk all gone to their beds, and himself on the other side of the divide for once, carousing with his fellow drifters. 

Joshua snorts. ‘Don’t know about soldiering or farming neither, but I know to avoid ‘em like the plague.’ 

‘I think marriage has advantages you don’t find in war and outdoor work,’ Alejo observes; now they’re almost home Ciro has finally picked up his pace, eager to get back to pasture. 

‘It’s sex lures you in at the start, right enough,’ concedes Josh, ‘but next thing the kids start coming and then she has you working your balls off to feed ‘em all. Any man who’s honest will tell you it’s a trap.’ 

Alejo draws Ciro to a halt and Joshua slithers down from behind him before he can turn and offer a hand. He staggers, but he’s loose enough from the whisky that it doesn’t seem to pain him like before. Alejo swings down himself and takes the reins, an image swimming up in his head from when he was young, of his mother and father at their table in candlelight, heads together over a ledger of figures. ‘It is not always so. My mamí and papí, they loved each other.’ 

Joshua has his back turned, groping to unlatch the door. ‘All kids think that, ‘fore they learn better.’ 

_Do they?_ Alejo considers. He was a child, yes, but he knows what he saw. ‘They did not agree all the time, but they were strong together, for us and for each other.’ 

‘Yeah, well,’ Joshua shoves inside, dismissive. ‘Not as if I’d know. My ma never had a good word to say about my pa after he left.’ 

Alejo shrugs and sets off to get Ciro unsaddled. He’s aware it’s a touchy subject: for all his surface affability and brashness there are parts of himself Joshua keeps locked up tight and it’s not hard to guess there’s something to know about his family, though by his own account he was born on the road with a gun at his hip and a couple of kings up his sleeve. He thinks again of Billy and Goody as he saw them tonight at the poker table, fitting together from long habit with well-worn jokes flowing between them and tiny unconscious gestures of intimacy: it brings home to him just how much of his companion he doesn’t yet know. 

It takes him a while to get the horses settled, but when he steps back into the bunkhouse with the saddle over his shoulder he finds it still in darkness – Joshua must have lurched off to bed without even lighting a candle. He feels about on the table for the matches and strikes one; when he sets it to the wick the wavering flame reveals a disappointing scene, the fire a mess of ashes topped by a greasy pan, discarded clothes scattered on the floor and the dishes shoved back dirty on the table. It couldn’t be further from the well-equipped home their friends have built up, but Joshua doesn’t seem to care: he’s collapsed onto his bunk, boots and hat dropped down beside him but otherwise fully-dressed. Alejo marches over to stare down at him. ‘Pants, _cabrón_.’ 

Joshua cracks an eye. ‘Keen to get in ‘em?’ The leer’s half-hearted at best and Alejo heaves an exaggerated sigh as he starts on Josh’s buckle. Josh snickers, but it turns quickly into a wince and then a stifled gasp of pain as Alejo tugs his pants off. 

‘ _Madre de dios!_ ’ The exclamation’s out before he can help it – the patchwork of burns across Joshua’s thighs is no surprise, but even in the candlelight the ridges of scar tissue are alarmingly red and inflamed. Alejo curses himself for his lack of thought: Joshua’s pants are coarse serge and he’s been riding for the first time, into town and back. 

‘Ain’t nothing.’ Joshua grabs for the blanket and tries to yank it over himself, but Alejo seizes his wrist. 

‘Joshua, this is bad. Why didn’t you say?’ 

Joshua’s face darkens and he won’t hold Alejo’s gaze. ‘Say what? Hurts like hell, all the time. Don’t mean I shouldn’t ride.’ 

Alejo’s belly twists at the defiance and the courage that underlies it. ‘Let me put something on it, before you sleep,’ he says more gently. ‘Where is Lynch’s salve?’ 

Joshua flops back, waving a hand dismissively. ‘In the bag.’ 

Alejo digs under the bunk for the saddlebag and fishes out the jar: when he sees its untouched state he fixes his partner with a look of reproach. ‘Morning and night, _güero_.’ 

Josh scowls. ‘Yeah, well, like I said, I ain’t never been a soldier.’ He shifts impatiently. ‘Get on with it if you’re going to.’

Alejo scoops up some of the oily balm and sets to work spreading it across the chafed patches. Joshua lies tense and awkward under his touch, eyes resolutely closed. ‘You’ve a better hand than Lynch’s womenfolk at this,’ he admits grudgingly. ‘Used to drive me distracted having them do it, all timid and flinching.’ 

‘I cannot imagine they enjoyed it any more than you.’ Alejo keeps his tone matter-of-fact as he works his way up to Joshua’s hipbones. Between the knotted scars the new skin is papery and delicate: no wonder his temper’s been short. 

‘Can say that again.’ Joshua stretches and settles a little more loosely. ‘Could you get to my back too? Ain’t so far up I can reach…’ 

‘Turn over, then.’ Alejo settles into a rhythm of leisurely sweeps over the skin, massaging gently as he lets the ointment do its work, and soon Joshua relaxes, distracted enough to return to his topic. 

‘What d’you reckon to old Horne, letting himself get reeled in by the widow?’ 

‘She knew what she was doing when she clapped eyes on him. He never stood a chance.’ Alejo’s concentrating on working the salve around the big diagonal scar on Joshua’s back; it’s not the easiest thing to get to, it’s true, but how much of his reluctance is really an unwillingness to see his skin so ridged and gouged where it used to be smooth muscle? 

‘Would you have thought he was the type to be domesticated? They won’t be getting me along to see it.’ 

Alejo laughs. ‘Trust me, you will be there, and you will be washed and properly dressed too.’

Joshua snorts in amusement. ‘Me in that church? You know I ain’t seen the inside of it but twice, once for the fighting and the other time for the f- ‘ 

However old and hardened he gets, Alejo can never quite escape the sense of divine disapproval. He presses down harder, fighting his inappropriate stab of lust. ‘You are a stranger to shame.’ 

Joshua props himself up on his elbows so he can squint back over his shoulder, green eyes bright. ‘Like you weren’t so easy for it.’ And he had been: in that desperate time when the man who was still Faraday to him had backed him up against the wall, looking him straight in the eye as he squeezed his dick, Ale had broken on the spot; he’d tipped his head back against the blackened wood, stifling a curse, and breathed in ash mingled with the musk of his own arousal as Joshua slid to his knees in the half-light. _If ever there was a man to send you straight to hell…_

Joshua looks smug. ‘Talk about standing up in church.’ A delighted grin spreads across his face. ‘Are you _blushing_?’ 

‘I am done,’ declares Alejo crossly, wiping his hands on his shirt. ‘And next time you will do this yourself.’ 

‘Yeah, sure, next time…’ Joshua trails off into a jaw-cracking yawn and he turns easily onto his side, stretching without stiffness.

By the time Alejo’s put the jar away and stripped off his own vest and pants Joshua’s breathing has evened out; Alejo moves to his own bunk, then stops. He’s been treating Joshua like he’s made from china, but it doesn’t seem like either of them’s been benefiting much from it. And more to the point, why are they in their own place if he’s going to go on acting like they’re still on show at Lynch’s? He grabs his own blanket and blows out the candle, then eases himself onto Joshua’s bunk, folding himself carefully around his dozing partner. It’s a ludicrously tight fit, two full-grown men in one bunk, and his ass hanging out over the floor, but when Joshua moves back against him a little, sighing, Alejo tightens his arm around him. He’s been sleeping alone too long, and it’s a miracle he’s still grateful for that he doesn’t have to.

He’s uncomfortable enough that he drifts half-awake for a while, mulling over their situation. A bunk’s no good: Billy and Goody’s was a proper bed, made for two with a fat straw mattress. He hasn’t seen it since he put it up for them, they keep it private behind the partition, but he can picture them in it, heads side by side on the pillow like an old married couple. Hard to have that when there’s just one room, though. Not that they get so many people coming out here, but there’d be no hiding it. There could be space enough out back, on the other hand, if the slope’s not too steep… And in his head he’s measuring and planning as he tumbles into sleep. 

\--  
When Josh cracks an eye next morning Vas is up as usual, shaking a pan over the fire: most times after a night’s carousing Josh would roll right over and go back to sleep, but while his head’s thick the rest of him doesn’t feel half as bad as usual, with a warmth in his muscles that persists even after he’s sat up. He scratches at his chest. ‘Got enough there for two?’ 

Vas’ eyebrows go up, but he cracks another couple of eggs into the pan while Josh reaches for his pants and goes to sluice his face and head in the bucket. ‘Discovered your work ethic all of a sudden?’ he asks as Josh pulls up a chair to the table. 

Josh cackles. ‘Be the day.’ Vas tips out the eggs onto two plates and passes him one with a slice of bread and a spoon: knife and fork is one of the things Josh is finding hardest to make progress with. How can his missing fingers feel like they’re still part of him? It’s confusing, his mind telling him he cans still feel and move them, and more often than if he tries with the cutlery he sends it clattering to the floor. Easier just to use a spoon and his hands, and it’s not like Vas has any better manners. ‘Got a job to be doing, though.’ 

‘How’s that?’ Vas is shovelling his eggs down cheerfully. 

‘Jack. Was me trained all his bad habits into him, and now I’ll train ‘em all out.’ 

Vas guffaws. ‘That will be a task and a half.’ He’s always unnaturally good-tempered in the mornings, but today he seems particularly chipper. ‘That horse is as contrary and stubborn as you are.’ 

Josh grins proudly. ‘Thought you managed to get on the right side of him while I was banged up.’ If he’s being honest the time Vas must have put in to be able to take care of his horse is impressive; he wouldn’t have blamed Chisolm entirely for selling him again. 

Vas winks. ‘You are both suckers for my personal charm.’

After breakfast Vas heads straight out and disappears whistling up to the farmhouse; it’s what Josh considers unhealthily early so he snags the last of the coffee and sits for a while, turning over bits of last night in his head. The coins that he won off Billy and Goody make a welcome weight in his pocket, and that’s one thing’s been eating at him. This job was supposed to be about money, wasn’t it? The satchel Chisolm showed him at the start had been enticing, all coins and bills and bits of jewellery: if he’d ridden off again with a hatful of that he’d have been well set-up. But it’s all turned out a lot less certain than it seemed; he guesses he owes Lynch something after all those weeks of doctoring and feeding, and soon he’ll be owing Emma Cullen too – Vas might be working for his keep but all Josh is right now is a mouth to feed. Probably have burned his way through his share and then some by the time he’s right. 

He tips up the coffeepot again, but he’s down to the dregs, so he goes to finish dressing instead. As he laboriously fixes his vest and neckerchief he eyes the new gunbelt is hanging from a nail at the end of the bunk with what’s left of Ethel and Maria. There’s another part of the same conundrum – neither of them’s worth the effort of repairing and that’s a serious loss. It’s not as though he paid for either of them to start with, he has to concede, they found their own way to him, but while he’s stuck in Rose Creek he’ll have neither the means nor the opportunity to shoot some guy and filch his weapons. His hideout pistol is gone too and that he paid for cash down: the small change in his pocket won’t come near to replacing it, let alone the others. Maybe all he’ll bring out of this whole business is a horse that was his already.

Horse, yeah, that’s what he’s supposed to be doing. He casts a glance round the room and it occurs to him that he could tidy up some, but where would he start? He’ll need to haul more water to scrub the dishes and doing it properly will mean keeping the fire fed too which means fetching more wood, and if he does all that he’ll be halfway to worn out before he gets started. No point wasting his energy on it now; instead he grabs Jack’s bridle from its hook and closes the door behind him. 

The sun’s barely up over the trees and the last of the night’s chill hasn’t quite faded, but someone’s up and waiting for him – soon as he comes round behind the bunkhouse Wild Bill comes bounding out from the undergrowth, tail wagging. ‘Too late for breakfast,’ Josh informs him sorrowfully. ‘Ain’t got nothing for lazy hounds, not today.’ Wild Bill sinks onto his haunches, head on one side and eyes expectant and Josh snorts, amused. He reaches into his pocket. ‘Well, would you look at that!’ Wild Bill yips in appreciation and falls on the scraps, leaving Josh to pick his way down the corral where Jack and Ciro are grazing. 

Ciro comes nosing up straight away, glad of the company, but Jack flicks his ears, purposely ignoring him. Josh sighs. ‘Too clever by half, ain’t ya?’ He looks at the straps and buckles in his damaged hand. Not going to be so easy, is it? Well, first things first: let’s see if he can get Jack to stand still long enough for Josh to be able to bridle him up. Wild Bill has come trotting up to join them: ‘Stay,’ he tells him, then he hangs the bridle on the fencepost and lets himself in through the gate – roll on the day when he can vault the rail like he used to. 

He takes his time giving Jack a once-over, then starts on getting him to stand calm: it’s not like breaking a bronc, Jack understands what he’s supposed to do, but Josh has never wanted him docile before. He guesses he could have brought an apple with him to help things along, even his devil horse is susceptible to bribery, but he can’t be going back for it now. Still, he’s making some progress and has just about got the headcollar on him when Wild Bill jumps to his feet, growling low. Jack shies, knocking Josh off-balance. ‘Goddamn dog,’ he curses. ‘Hold still.’

Jack’s sidling away, ears back, and on the other side of the fence Wild Bill stalks a few steps towards the trees and starts barking. ‘Shut up, you dumb motherfuck,’ bellows Josh, but it’s too late: Jack rears up, jerking the rein from his hand and sending him stumbling backward. 

His leg gives way beneath him and he goes down hard; Jack rears again, hooves flailing above him, and a voice shouts, ‘Look out, mister!’ From nowhere a tow-haired kid appears, throwing himself dramatically to catch Jack’s trailing rein. 

‘Get back,’ Josh gulps in alarm, with visions of his horse caving in the kid’s skull, and the boy lets Jack go, dodging at the last minute out of range of his kicking heels. He turns an anxious face to Josh. ‘Say, mister, are you hurt?’ 

Dizzy and fighting down nausea from the jar of the fall, it takes Josh a moment to gather his wits. ‘You spooked him,’ he accuses. ‘Must have been you setting Wild Bill off.’ Over on the other side of the corral Jack has calmed now he’s sent Josh ass over tit; Josh could swear he has a sense of humour. 

The boy flushes. ‘Me and your horse, we’re pals,’ he insists. ‘I come out here to see him all the time. Give him half a carrot once.’ 

Josh strongly doubts that last one – Jack would have had his hand off at the wrist most like – but then it’s not as though he’s been here to gainsay it. ‘Well, help me up,’ he growls and the boy edges nervously over, all knobby wrists and ankles and his pants worn through at the knees. He bends down so Josh can plant a hand on his shoulder and heave himself upright. ‘Where’d you come from, anyway?’ he asks. 

The kid points vaguely in the direction of the creek, but his attention is riveted on Josh’s hand. ‘What happened to your fingers, mister?’ 

Josh looks down at him, suspiciously, but the boy’s blue eyes are guileless. ‘Had ‘em bit off, wrestling a bear.’ 

He watches closely to see if it’s a trick, but the kid’s eyes go saucer-wide with excitement. ‘For real?’ 

Jack and Ciro have gone back to cropping peacefully at the grass and Josh decides a break won’t hurt. ‘Wouldn’t lie about it, kid.’ He jerks his head and the boy follows him back to the other side of the fence where Wild Bill comes to sniff him curiously. ‘Happened out in the Black Hills, Dakota way, when I was scouting for a gold claim.’ 

Josh leans on the fence to spin his yarn and the kid climbs onto the rail and sits swinging his feet in rapt attention and prompting him with breathless questions, ‘Weren’t you real scared?’ and ‘How come the wolves didn’t run you down?’ It’s a long time since Josh has had such a good audience and soon he’s stacking one tall tale on top of the next as the kid swallows every one down. Such uncomplicated admiration improves his temper no end and when eventually he runs dry he has an idea. 

‘You hungry?’ he asks. Kids usually are, in his experience, and sure enough the boy nods warily. Josh jerks a thumb to the bunkhouse. ‘Run up there and you’ll see a barrel of apples next the door. Fill up your pockets, one for you and one for me and one for each of the nags. Then we can see if you’re really friends with old Jack.’ 

The boy goes pelting off, Wild Bill yipping at his heels, and Josh gets to wait and ease out the knots in his back a little until they come racing back. The boy produces the apples and Josh grins. ‘’Kay. You eat that while I get Jack standing again, then we’ll see if we can keep him sweet while you can put the bridle on him.’ 

It works better than he hoped – he can boss the kid along without having to fumble with the straps and buckles himself, and maybe there is something to the boy’s line too, the way Jack ain’t so nervous with him. The time goes by so easy that Josh is surprised when the dinner bell rings out from the farmhouse. 

At the sound the kid jumps guiltily. ‘I gotta go, Ma will be after me for shirking the chores.’ 

Before Josh knows it he’s wriggled through the fence and shot off halfway to the trees: Josh calls after him, ‘Next time don’t be hanging round in the bushes spooking the dog. Whistle or something to let on you’re here.’ 

The kid’s face lights up in a flashing smile. ‘Yes, sir,’ he says, then ducks away. 

\--

Christmas comes and goes without any fuss for them: Josh is sure Emma Cullen was badgering for them to be celebrating Christmas up at the farmhouse, but Vas didn’t push it and Josh was glad of it: the odd bottle of whisky made an appearance, for which he was grateful, the saloon and its distance being a problem he hasn’t properly addressed yet, but the hymn-singing and visiting you can keep. The only place he goes is back to Billy and Goody’s for cards another time, and then another: having to borrow a lazy old mare he can control doesn’t please Josh much, but at least he’s up and riding again, and the change of company’s welcome; it’s strange to be spending the winter holed up in a town and it gives him heart to see he’s not the only one feels out of place. 

Vas and Billy seem a mite friendlier too, working together on a carpentry job between times, some notion of Billy’s according to Vas; he sometimes brings back odd bits of wood to whittle at in the evenings, and watching him work at them until they’re smooth and polished makes Josh think of the four of them, rubbing shoulders round the table in the cabin until they’re on the way to fitting together. But for the rest he’s content to let the town be, though he supposes he’ll have to face Lynch again sooner or later: he’s nearly finished the jar of gunk, buttering himself with it night and day, and though he’s trying not to notice it the scar on his back seems to be knitting tighter as time goes by. First things first, he keeps telling himself, get to riding Jack again and then you can see about the rest.

Not that the town can keep its distance entirely. One evening not long after they’ve set up to cook outside – Emma sent them a fat hen to roast and Vas has it turning over the flames of a campfire, spitting fat, while bread bakes in a pan below. Josh is perched on an uncut log, close enough to feel the warmth against the chill of dusk, and Wild Bill is lying at a respectful distance with his head on his paws. ‘Ask me, this is the easiest way to housekeeping,’ observes Josh. ‘No dishes, no cleaning up the hearth and just chuck the bones to the dog.’ 

‘Easiest for you,’ sniffs Vas, turning the hen deftly and giving the pan a shake. ‘What exactly is your contribution here?’

‘I’m best acting in a supervisory capacity.’ Josh can’t manage to keep a straight face at Vas’ snort of outrage, but as he draws breath to retort Wild Bill raises his head at a heavy approaching tread. 

‘A dinner after my own heart,’ pronounces old Jack Horne in his reedy voice, eying the scene approvingly. ‘Mrs Cullen said I’d find you both down here.’ 

Horne? What’s he want with them? Josh looks to Vas, who shrugs slightly. ‘Pull up a chair,’ Josh offers, waving a hand, and Horne lowers himself to the ground with a huff, crosslegged next to the fire. 

He blinks around him. ‘Well set up here.’ Josh braces himself for the scrutiny as Horne’s eyes flicker over him, but all he gets is a thoughtful nod. ‘Lot to be said for the simple life.’ 

Josh rolls his eyes. ‘If that’s so, why are you doing a damn-fool thing like getting hitched to the widow?’ 

Vas clicks his tongue. ‘It’s more regular to say _felicitationes_ , _cabrón_. But it is a good question.’ He gives Horne a lascivious grin. ‘You find you need to make an honest woman of her all of a sudden?’ 

Horne shakes his head at both of them. ‘Marriage is good for a man. And yes, Mrs Frankel has done me the honour of accepting my proposal of marriage. That’s why I’m here.’ 

‘It is?’ Josh is having trouble with the thread of the conversation, but then that’s hardly unusual with Horne. 

Horne snaps suddenly back into focus again. ‘Brought you this.’ He reaches into his jacket and produces a small package wrapped in oilcloth. ‘Sam Chisolm gave it into my keeping a few days past.’ 

‘He was through this way again?’ Josh thought Chisolm was long gone, and certainly not like to be sending him gifts after the terms they’d parted on. Still, the world looks different now he’s standing up again, he has to admit, and maybe Chisolm thinks so too. Horne waves the package at him encouragingly and he takes it; the weight and shape of it in his hands are unmistakeable and his heart speeds up like a boy catching sight of his sweetheart. 

He unfolds the cloth to reveal a Colt Peacemaker: she’s seen some use, judging by the scuffs and nicks on her metalwork, but when he picks her up she’s well-balanced with a smooth cherrywood handle. Underneath there’s her companion, a snub-nosed banker’s special hideaway, shiny new. ‘Well, hell,’ he says. 

‘Fine hardware,’ Vas approves. 

Josh spins the chamber of the Colt, snaps it back into place and sights down it: it’s the best step back to normal he could have. He looks back to Horne. ‘Good of Chisolm to think of it,’ he says gruffly. 

The fowl is ready and Vas slides it off the spit to pull apart, swearing as he burns his fingers, while Josh snags the bread from the pan. Horne waves away the offer of food, settling himself more comfortably. ‘You can thank him yourself, at my wedding.’ 

‘Didn’t say I-‘ starts Josh, but Horne barrels right on over him. ‘Wouldn’t be the same to stand up without my comrades at my back.’ 

‘We would not miss it,’ Vas assures him treacherously; Josh glares at him. 

‘I think it’ll be an occasion,’ agrees Horne. He squints up at the darkening sky thoughtfully. ‘Time to lay the past to rest.’

Josh weighs his new guns in his hands. Might be there’s something to that after all. He’d thought, lying abed, that when he was able again he’d find where Bogue was buried so he could piss on his grave, and his asshole henchmen too, but through the long months of recovery his resolve just seemed to fade. Since he left Lynch’s he hasn’t even remembered to ask about the graves; it seems so small and far away. ‘All water down the creek, ain’t it?’ 

‘That’s something we all learn, son.’ Horne is staring into the fire now, looking sorrowful. ‘It’s a time in my life I don’t often care to recall, but when I lost my family I took it hard. Any man would have, but I turned my back on the Lord and gave myself over to rage and vengeance.’ Josh can well believe it; joke though he might, on the battlefield he had a glimpse of the terrifying force Horne could be. ‘Every man I killed I said was for them, and if the Lord hadn’t set Sam Chisolm in my way I might have kept on with the hunting and the killing until there was no humanity left in me.’ 

‘Was that how you met him?’ Josh has been curious to know the story. 

Horne smiles at the memory, examining the flames as though the past is there before him. ‘We first made acquaintance up in Montana: those days there weren’t many wanted to talk to me - I was wild as a bear, and I must have smelled like one too, but you know how Chisolm is, he never turned a hair. We talked, and then we rode together a while, and we talked some more. Don’t know how much of his story you know-’ 

‘Vas told me some,’ interjects Josh, ‘’bout Bogue and the scars and all.’ 

‘Then you’ll have an idea what he talked about,’ continues Horne, ‘about justice and what we bring to the world. It was Sam Chisolm called me back into the land of the living again from where I was, made me see I was still a man and that I might have a purpose still.’ 

‘Chisolm liked the taste of revenge fine when he got it for himself.’ Vas’ smile is fierce. ‘Nursed it all those years and kept it strong until Bogue was there for the taking.’ 

‘And now he’s finding out what’s on the other side too,’ agrees Horne placidly. ‘There’s an art to taking as well as to giving.’

\--

The morning of the wedding Josh has to allow that Vas looks pretty fine, freshly-washed with his hair curling black and his vaquero’s outfit sparkling with silver discs and spurs. Josh succumbed to the hot water himself the night before too and now he’s in a clean shirt, tugging fretfully at the actual collar and tie he’s been bullied into and regretting his decision wholeheartedly. ‘Don’t know what the fuss is for,’ he complains. ‘Ain’t like anyone’ll need to waste time looking at me.’ 

‘What are you talking about, _loco_?’ Vas bats his hand away and straightens his collar. ‘In town they are always asking, when is Mr Faraday coming? Everyone wants to shake your hand.’ 

‘Yeah, well, they can keep their paws to themselves.’ He doesn’t need a reminder of how he’s changed. ‘Only doing this ‘cause old Horne insisted. Quick in-and-out’s enough for me.’ 

‘That is what I have heard.’ The quirk of Vas’ eyebrow cracks Josh up despite himself and he’s still quaking with laughter as they set out up to the farmhouse. Josh lurches on the stony track; ‘You don’t want the-’ Vas begins, but at his expression he doesn’t even bother to finish the question, just takes his elbow to steady him and Josh doesn’t mind it for the help, though he shakes him off before they’re in sight of the other hands. 

Makes sense for them all to go together, he guesses; the wagon’s there ready with Lyle and Henry beside it, and seeing them both dressed up like a pair of popinjays is so funny that Josh forgets his own self-consciousness. Lyle’s decked out in an old ruffled coat so threadbare he must have picked it out the bottom of a charity barrel, and his hair’s slicked back with enough grease to baste a pig, but even so he cuts a better figure than Henry, whose pants end just above the tops of his boots, and who’s busting out of his jacket in all directions.

‘Your ma make that outfit for you when you were ten?’ Josh asks. 

Henry tugs mournfully at his sleeves. ‘Didn’t think I’d grown so.’ 

Josh smirks. ‘Just don’t breathe too deep or those buttons’ll come pinging off you like shot.’ 

‘Emma said I have to keep it done up for church,’ says Henry despondently. 

‘She did,’ agrees Emma briskly from behind him: she and Catalina are both much more smartly turned-out, though Catalina’s wine-red dress with its tight-laced bodice is a pointed contrast to Emma’s modest black, and there’s something tight in her expression that makes Josh wonder if maybe he’s not the only one hesitating to put himself on show today. 

‘Allow me, Miz Cullen.’ Lyle climbs up onto the box and offers her a hand. 

Vas grins at Catalina. ‘Senorita?’ She puts her hands on his shoulders, smiling up at him, and he takes her round the waist and tosses her effortlessly into the wagon. ‘You next,’ he tells Henry, who scrambles up beside her, blushing scarlet. Josh grimaces: how’s he supposed to hitch himself up there? But Vas makes a leg for him and Henry gives him a haul from above, and between them Josh manages it, the holiday atmosphere making it less awkward than he thought. 

They don’t get far along the road before they’re in plentiful company, families in carts or on foot and all in their Sunday best. Josh couldn’t tell you who most of them are, his social acquaintance beyond Dr Lynch being strictly limited to the bartenders and some of the whores, but no one wants to miss out on the shindig, it seems. The square outside the church is thronged with respectable folks showing themselves off and fortunately it’s busy enough that he can slide down off the tail of the cart without drawing attention. ‘This way.’ Vas throws an arm round his shoulders, steadying him unobtrusively as he steers him through the sea of unfamiliar faces. 

There’s no sign of Horne or Chisolm, but Goody’s there, as dandified and full of himself as ever, and even Billy seems to be taking this nonsense seriously with some greenery in his lapel. Goody lights up with amusement when he sees them. ‘Nice to see you making an effort, Joshua.’ 

Josh tugs at his collar once more. ‘You think I look dumb, you should see the others.’ He’s sure there’s no shortage of people gawking around them, but he can turn his back on them at least, and it helps that Rocks is the opposite of approachable in any situation. 

‘Chisolm here yet?’ asks Vas. 

‘He’s supporting the groom,’ Goody tells him, ‘so we must suppose he’s helping Jack conquer his last-minute doubts. Though I have it on good authority that his new lady acquaintance will be arriving shortly to keep him company.’ 

‘See?’ Josh turns accusingly to Vas. ‘’S why women are so keen on weddings – they know it’s catching.’

It’s walking into the church is the hardest part. Not because Josh really thinks the floor will split open and tip him down into hell, though he met a man once who swore he’d seen it happen with his own eyes, snakes and brimstone and all. No, the church is just a building, as plain and white inside as out now it’s repaired; it’s the fact that it seems like the whole population is squeezed in there, the benches crammed with people, and when he and Vas set foot through the door every face turns toward them, a wall of eyes to sweep him up and down and judge him. He took his hat off at the door because he’s not a savage, and knowing what they’re all seeing, his patchy hair and the seams of scars on his face and his rag of an ear, makes him feel as exposed as if he were naked. But stitched-together or not, Josh Faraday ain’t no coward, so he strides forward as confidently as he can, and leastways there’s Vas beside him for the women to stare at if they want a better sight. 

But as he limps his way along the aisle the farmer at the end of the nearest pew is suddenly on his feet and bowing, and the next too and the next after him like a ripple in a wheatfield, the whole congregation rising to greet him, their faces respectful and serious. It’s not what he expected, all these churchgoing folks acting like he’s the state governor and the preacher smiling at him like he ain’t a dyed-in-the-wool sinner, and half of him thinks they’re a bunch of suckers right enough, but the other half relaxes a little and holds his head high as the two of them are ushered to a carefully-cleared seat.

\--

‘Compliments of Mr Garrett.’ 

A fresh bottle thunks down in front of them and Joshua grins up at the girl who’s brought it. ‘Thanks, darling.’ Alejo’s not convinced he knows who Garrett is, but it doesn’t seem to matter: as soon as they settled themselves at the Imperial there’s been no shortage of respects paid in alcoholic form, and Joshua seems to have stripped off his apprehensions along with his collar and tie. Right now he’s the Josh Faraday everyone knows, all jokes and sharp humour, and everyone wants to sit at his table, greeting the tales of his former exploits with gales of laughter. 

Alejo’s glad to see it, but time’s getting on: it’s turning to dusk outside and lanterns are lit at the barn where the wedding supper’s to be, the first strains of music drifting faintly through the door. Alejo unwinds himself from his seat. ‘You coming?’ he asks, but Joshua rattles down his glass for the girl to refill. 

‘I’m right comfortable here. You go on.’ 

Alejo hesitates, but Joshua has told him often enough he doesn’t need nursemaiding, so he might as well take him at his word. ‘Catch you later, guero,’ he promises.

He’s not the only one keen to get the festivities under way – the townsfolk have been flowing back and forth all afternoon carrying dishes and plates and rolling in barrels to set up on trestles, and now everyone’s there for the party, well-dressed matrons and their storekeeper husbands, bashful farmhands eyeing the girls from the Elysium in their almost-respectable best, and little children darting about excitedly underfoot. It reminds him of before, of the easy embrace of family and village, and seeing the optimism and excitement on every face, Rose Creek determined to make the most of its celebration, why shouldn’t he feel a little proud? 

He said he was going to have a good time and he intends to: at the other end of the room squares are forming up for dancing, but his first port of call is the tables overflowing with pies and dishes of cobbler, hams and cheese, He elbows his way cheerfully through to load up a plate; when he’s done he spots Billy lounging watchfully against a pillar, glass in hand, and threads through the crowd to join him. 

‘Did Goodnight like his chair?’ 

The ghost of a smile tugs at Billy’s lips. ‘He did.’ Billy’s a man of few words, but spending time with him as they mended his gift for Goodnight has taught Alejo to read the quiet approval in his tone. 

‘Where’s he gone?’ 

Billy nods silently to the line of dancers where Goodnight is bowing over the hand of an overdressed young woman, saying something that makes her giggle. ‘Faraday not here?’ he asks in turn. 

‘Stuck fast at the Imperial.’ 

Billy’s eyebrows go up. ‘Thought he didn’t want to be the centre of attention.’ 

‘He said so,’ Alejo agrees, ‘but he has found it is not what he thought.’ It’s one more reason for his relief tonight, that Joshua’s finally discovered the warmth of the town’s reception. ‘And they are buying drinks for him hand over fist,’ he adds honestly. 

‘Can see that would help.’ Billy’s as dry as ever. 

His foot is tapping to the music: _Not dancing?_ is on the tip of Alejo’s tongue to ask, but of course Billy’s going to be reticent. He’s a handsome man by anyone’s standards and one of the heroes of the hour, but Goodnight’s always going to fit in more easily. They both watch as Goodnight swings his partner with an expert hand. ‘I heard he caused some disappointments among the unmarried women of Rose Creek,’ Alejo observes.

‘Would have caused more if he’d married them.’ Billy’s face doesn’t twitch this time, but Alejo’s close enough to catch the softness in Billy’s gaze as Goodnight flickers in and out of sight among the dancers and once again, he’s struck with a pang of envy. _Nine years_ , Goody had said. Where will Joshua and he be nine years from now? Or nine months, even?

He sets his plate aside and brushes himself down carefully. ‘Time I went into action, I cannot let Goodnight have all the attention.’ 

Billy raises his glass in salute. ‘Someone should give him a run for his money.’ 

There are certainly enough women waiting their turn to be charmed, wives and widows and a whole bevy of young girls giggling together and shooting covert glances at the cluster of nervous young men trying to pluck up courage to approach them. On his way over to accost the wallflowers Alejo spots Henry, gazing with what he must imagine is hidden adoration at one of Trent’s fair-haired daughters.

Alejo claps him on the shoulder and makes him jump. ‘Stop mooning and ask her to dance. She will say yes.’ 

The tips of Henry’s ears go red. ‘You don’t know that.’ 

Alejo throws back his head and laughs. ‘At a wedding? Trust me, _mijo_ , every single woman here has just one thing on her mind. Watch.’ 

He saunters over, lazy and confident, and bows. ‘Senoritas.’ The flutter it produces is always gratifying. Who first? Trent’s girls are pretty in a milk-fed kind of a way, but he’s always preferred a partner with some fire. There’s a plump freckly redhead who looks like fun, and her dark statuesque friend with an intriguing quirk to her smile; or the young woman he’s not seen before, slender and copper-skinned, whispering to her companion… 

His hesitation is his undoing: the elderly Miss Sorenson, in a dress which would be revealing if she had anything but a skinny chest to reveal, appears suddenly at his elbow. ‘Why, Mr Vasquez, I declare I don’t mind if I do!’ As she whisks him triumphantly into the square for the next dance he thinks he catches a glimpse of Billy laughing. 

True to his word Alejo flits from flower to flower, partnering now with a schoolgirl in ribbons and now a teasing saloon girl: he coaxes a smile from sober Mrs Garrett, makes a mousy young woman glow with happiness as he spins her round, and even steps out with the new Mrs Horne, surprised to find a twinkle in her eye for all her angular exterior. He smirks at Goodnight when the dance brings them past each other, though in truth it’s hard to say which of them is the more popular: he reckons he’s more than earned his enjoyment in work and worry, they all have, the new year’s first true celebration.

He’s taking a brief break and a fresh glass of frothing cider when someone calls his name and Chisolm comes threading through the crowd in his usual black, looking every inch the lawman. ‘Setting hearts aflutter?’ he asks as he arrives at Alejo’s side. 

‘It is my job,’ Alejo grins cheerfully. ‘There are a lot of ladies and someone has to show them all a good time.’ 

‘I’m sure you’re an asset to the town.’ Is it his imagination, or does Chisolm seem slightly embarrassed? He must know that Alejo spotted him earlier with the handsome widow who Goodnight says is reeling him in. ‘Good to see Faraday here too,’ Chisolm adds. 

Alejo cranes behind him. ‘He is here?’ 

‘And looking more like himself than I was expecting.’ Chisolm smiles. ‘Guess he really is going to have the tallest tale to tell after all.’ 

‘He is doing better,’ says Alejo cautiously; if it’s the first time Chisolm has seen Joshua since October then he supposes the change in him is remarkable. 

‘Same as with Goody.’ Chisolm’s all enthusiasm. ‘Winter’s rest has done them both a world of good. No doubt Faraday will be putting those guns I sent him to inadvisable use before long too.’ He puts a hand on Alejo’s shoulder and leans closer. ‘That’s something I was hoping to ask you about.’ Alejo raises his eyebrows. ‘Might you be looking for work?’ 

‘Work?’ echoes Alejo in surprise. ‘I have plenty to be doing, for Emma.’ 

Chisolm looks confused in turn. ‘At the farm, yes, but now Faraday’s back on his feet I was thinking you might be ready for something more challenging. And I could use a man of your abilities in my line.’ 

Alejo scrutinises him: Chisolm’s not easy to read, but he seems to be genuine. _Doesn’t he understand?_ But Joshua’s troubles aren’t his to share, so he says instead, ‘I am still a wanted man: is that good for a bounty-hunter?’ 

Chisolm tips back his glass. ‘Some might say that’s the best way to the fugitive’s mind.’ 

Alejo shakes his head. ‘For now I am better close to home.’ 

Chisolm claps him on the back, then catches Goodnight’s eye across the room and raises a hand in acknowledgement. ‘Well, offer’s open, if you want to think on it.’ 

Alejo watches as he goes, pausing to shake hands with a stream of well-wishers. So he thinks he knows how the story ends for us. But why should he be surprised? Billy-and-Goody is one thing, but why wouldn’t Chisolm expect him and Joshua to part ways as soon as he’s better? And the offer isn’t a bad one: Alejo can see they’d make a good team, and keeping company with a lawman isn’t the worst defence in his situation. 

He shakes his head. Why is he spending all his time worrying about the future? If Joshua is here he should probably find him, make sure he’s not straining his injuries or getting riled up into a fight. He scans the room – Joshua’s not usually hard to locate, just look for the uproar, and there he is with Emma and Horne, as like his old self as Alejo’s seen. He weaves his way around the dancers to join them, but before he can two hands suddenly seize his, and he looks down into a pair of black eyes snapping with merriment. 

‘Every lady here is saying, Alejandro Vasquez danced with me, and he is so handsome, so charming.’ Catalina gives him a sly smile. ‘Will you dance with all of them and not with me?’ 

Alejo laughs and slips his arm around her waist as the music strikes up again. ‘ _Corazón_ , I am all yours!’ 

\--

Speeches made and toasts to the bride and groom drunk, the newly-wed couple depart in a shower of rice, but no one’s in a hurry to let the proceedings end; it’s well into the night by the time the party winds down, the tables swept bare, little children fighting and the fiddlers finally quenching their thirst with the last of the cider. If Joshua is stumbling drunk he’s not the only one; Alejo’s had more than enough himself and when they emerge into the street the cold clear air seems as sharp as the cider, making his head spin. He hangs onto the hitching-rail, getting his bearings. 

‘Where’s Lyle?’ Joshua squints around as though Lyle and the cart might be hidden somewhere in plain view. ‘And that Henry? They take off?’ 

There’s a guilty rattle somewhere to Alejo’s left, and what he took for a patch of shadow reveals itself as the rather dishevelled form of Henry. ‘Nossir,’ he mutters. 

‘What you doing hiding there?’ demands Joshua. 

‘Well…’ Henry glances awkwardly behind him and an equally dishevelled Miss Trent steps out at his side, chin defiantly raised. Alejo can’t help his cackle of laughter – Henry clearly did find his courage and then some. 

‘Get in there!’ Joshua whoops, loud enough to wake the dead and certainly loud enough to alert a protective parent; Alejo claps a hand over his mouth and drags him away down the street. 

‘Come on.’ 

‘Where we going?’ Josh protests, though he’s letting Alejo take most of his weight. 

‘Whorehouse.’ 

Josh snorts. ‘That’s considerable optimistic on your part.’ 

Alejo starts shaking with mirth as they stagger along the boardwalk. ‘To sleep, dumbass.’ 

Josh wiggles his eyebrows. ‘Ain’t that what they all say?’ 

For once the Elysium’s girls have had a night off and the saloon parlour is all but empty; Alejo boosts Josh up the stairs, just like old times, and leads him along the corridor to the room at the end. ‘Do not say I do not care for your comfort, _güero_.’ He flings the door open to reveal a fancy four-poster heaped with pillows. ‘Best bed in the house.’ 

Joshua guffaws. ‘Better’n old Horne is getting on his wedding night, I bet.’ He stretches out his arms and lets himself fall into the mattress’s embrace, splayed out like a turtle basking on a rock. 

Alejo shrugs off his jacket and surveys his partner with resignation. ‘Can’t sleep with your boots on.’ He unlaces Joshua’s boots and tugs them off his unresisting form, then leans over to start on his vest; he yelps in surprise as two hands fist into his collar and pull him down. 

‘Bed like this ain’t meant just for sleeping.’ Joshua laughs hot against his mouth and Alejo sinks eagerly into the kiss, tasting sweet apples over a whisky tang. It’s not exactly chaste, but even so he doesn’t expect the hand that lands dead centre on his dick. ‘Want me to get you off?’ Joshua nips at Alejo’s neck as he gasps. ‘Was being in church put me in mind of it.’ 

‘I-‘ starts Alejo, but Joshua doesn’t bother with his buckle, just squirms a hand down the front of his pants and whatever Alejo might have said is cut off in a hiss through his teeth at the touch. 

It’s been so long: lust surges up, hot and sudden, and Joshua’s amusement rumbles in his chest as Alejo grinds against him. ‘Like that?’ 

His hand is moving just how Alejo wants it, rough and quick and now, and ‘No,’ he manages to grit out. ‘Wait.’ 

Joshua grins as he brings his knee up between Alejo’s thighs. ‘Ain’t you waited long enough?’ 

It takes every ounce of will he possesses, but Alejo breaks the embrace, pushing himself upright and rolling awkwardly off the bed. The light in Joshua’s face dies and he flops back heavily. ‘Guess you haven’t. Shoulda known there’s enough girls in town to keep you busy.’ 

Alejo strips out of his vest, pulls his shirt over his head and tosses both in the direction of a chair. ‘You think I have been spending all this time chasing women.’ 

Joshua props himself up on one elbow, scowling irritably. ‘Enough of them pawing over you tonight.’ 

Alejo pulls off his boots, letting them fall one after another and begins on his belt. ‘I was dancing, Joshua. Making them smile.’ 

Joshua narrows his eyes. ‘With that Catalina. She’d lay for you soon as you click your fingers.’ 

‘Perhaps she would.’ Alejo steps out of his pants and drawers to stand naked in the lamplight, holding Joshua’s gaze. ‘I do not want her, or any of them.’ He climbs back onto the bed to kneel above Joshua, settling his weight carefully over him. ‘I want you.’ 

He kisses him again, this time slow and thorough, breathing in starch and smoke and the warm gingery scent that sends a spark through him, and as Joshua’s fingers come sliding up his thigh he takes hold of his wrist. ‘And I am going to do it properly.’

The wicked grin is back on Joshua’s face and he does his level best to distract Alejo while he manoeuvres him out of his clothes; it’s an impressive best and Alejo is breathing fast again by the time Joshua is naked too. It’s the first time since the injury that he’s seen the whole of his body bare: the scars on legs and back he’s used to, but now Joshua isn’t a patient but a lover, and Alejo explores with fingers and lips to find out what’s the same in him, the pale freckly skin and springing red hair, the sounds he makes at the graze of Alejo’s teeth, his rough messy kisses and the way he digs his fingers into Alejo’s ass. 

He wants to make it last, to make it count, but as soon as Joshua takes him firmly in hand it’s too intense to be slow and he can’t do more than hang on, one hand on the back of Joshua’s neck and their legs tangled together, head thrown back and fighting the building pleasure, wave after wave, until it crests and crashes him under.

When he comes to Joshua is watching him, eyes bright and intent. 

‘ _Cariño_.’ Alejo draws him in, thumb brushing along his jaw as they kiss, but when he grazes a hand down his belly Joshua flinches away. ‘No?’ asks Alejo delicately: it’s not as though he hasn’t considered the complications here. 

‘M’okay,’ Joshua mutters. 

It’s not the night to push it; already heavy-limbed, Alejo squirms around until he can pull the covers over them both, sinking into the soft feathers. ‘Been a day.’ Unexpectedly Joshua wraps an arm around his shoulders, settling them with Alejo’s head on his chest. Alejo chuckles. ‘From the church to the brothel.’ 

Joshua huffs, half-amused. ‘Story of my life.’ 

‘Hmm?’ Alejo waits, but nothing more’s forthcoming and in a while Joshua’s arm slips to his side and he begins to snore gently. It can wait till morning, Alejo thinks. It can all wait. Joshua’s chest rises and falls, his heart thumping steady under Alejo’s ear; Alejo’s head swims with relaxation and drink and gratitude. As he slips into sleep he pictures them all, two by two across the town – Horne and his widow, Billy and Goodnight, Henry and his girl; maybe Lyle found someone too, and Catalina, and even Miss Sorenson. He hopes the gods of love can shine down on everyone tonight, so no one has to sleep alone.

**Author's Note:**

> Speak to me: fontainebleau22.tumblr.com


End file.
